Wheatley has come to the conclusion that it takes a lot of dexterity to cook.
He doesn't think he's much of a dexterous fellow. As a core, his management rail had done all of his dexterous work for him. Flitting about test subject compartments and back and forth across the facility without a care in the world, letting the rail guide him onward—nope, not much practice there. As a human, however, if he's left to his own devices, he sometimes has trouble standing on his own two feet. He won't kid himself; that can be rather awkward, and it definitely doesn't contribute to any natural agility.
So when he watches Chell multitasking about the kitchen, seamless and smooth and fast on her feet, he can only pause and admire her while she works. She seems to be synched with the internal timing of everything; she knows when to take a pan off the burner, when to put another on, when to add spice, when to add more heat, when to turn the meat to lock the flavor inside, and so much more. He can't even imagine remembering to do all of those things, especially not all at once. Perhaps when he still had the benefits of a highly advanced central processing unit to manage countless timeslices and process multitudes of thoughts at a better-than-efficient speed, but most definitely not now.
He's staring into space when Chell shoves a measuring cup into his hands, effectively breaking his reverie.
Startled, Wheatley gives it a curious look. "Um… what exactly am I supposed to do with this?"
Nudging the simmering pieces of meat in the frying pan with the end of a wooden spoon, she points to a thick recipe book far along the counter, its pages flipped open.
Somewhat confused, he draws up to the book and sets the cup down beside it. He presses a finger along the paragraphs of small text, squinting as he skims through the jumbles of words. To his surprise, numbers are listed there as well. Wheatley's never been a great reader, but he definitely knows numbers.
"Oh, so they're measurements," he says, noting the presence of units. "Which is this for?"
Chell holds up one finger.
"One? The first list? This one here?"
She nods, scooping a piece of meat into the spoon. He watches her as she takes a knife and gently carves into it, exposing the color inside. It doesn't seem meet her standards, however; she makes a huffing noise in her throat and slides it back into the pan, the oil retaliating with a hiss.
Wheatley turns his attention back to the book. "Well, let's see what we got here. Shouldn't be too hard." He leans in and peers at the text, trailing his thumb along the words. "Ah, here. Oh, wow, look at all of those. Half cup of water, three-quarters of milk, one and a forth of cream…" He glances nervously to the measuring cup. "Right. Well, seems simple enough. Units are right along the side there, all accounted for. Don't think any are missing. Oh, that would be bad, wouldn't it? Pretty sure they're all there, though. Don't hear about faulty measuring cups too often." He glances back up at Chell, fretfully pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "We do have some sort of container to put all this in, right?"
Chell looks over her shoulder as she continues to turn the meat. She nods in reply, but she's got that smirk creeping across her lips, the one that makes it seem like she's enjoying watching him become so flustered.
"Hey, don't look at me like that, it's not my fault," he says, folding his arms and lapsing into a scowl. "I'm out of my element here. Not that… well, not that I was ever really in it to begin with, but seriously now, that's just not nice. I didn't smirk at you earlier, did I? No, no, I didn't. Was perfectly amiable, a right gentleman. Epitome of courtesy. I don't go about smirking at ladies trying to learn new things. Did it ever occur to you to do the same? Except with me instead, obviously. But I'll be honest, I'll be honest, other ladies might appreciate the gesture as well."
Chell lets out a long sigh and holds up a hand, signaling for him to wait. He watches her with interest as she carefully ladles each piece of meat out of the pan with her wooden spoon and drops them onto a plate. When she seems satisfied, she leaves the spoon, turns off the heat, and draws up to his side.
"Wait, wait, what are you, what are—I… oh."
Her hand is placed against the back of his, her palm resting along his knuckles. It's soft and warm and it makes his chest tighten, spiderwebbing thrill along his nerves. God, he keeps forgetting just how good she feels. Gently, she guides his hand toward the measuring cup, pressing his fingers with her own as if urging him to pick it up.
He swallows, and he can feel the heat rise in his face. "You're going to show me?"
Nodding, she nudges her hip against his thigh, calm and coaxing.
"All right then," he says, inwardly savoring the sensation. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I can work with that."
Chell lightly punches his arm with her free hand.
"That wasn't sarcastic," he insists with a frown, finally taking the measuring cup. "I meant it. I really did."
She only smiles, her hand squeezing his in reply.
Wheatley quickly discovers that cooking is also very methodical. It's all about procedure. Dexterity is a nice bonus to be sure, but everything breaks down into a basic formula: a series of steps structured together by smaller components that are to be executed in a particular way in order to achieve a goal. To create something, certain items are required, and those items must then be prepared and mixed together in a certain manner to obtain the desired result. It's all very practical, very technical, and he can definitely understand why she's so good at it. It's exactly like solving a puzzle, but with more freedom and improvisation involved. It's absolutely fascinating.
He'll admit that he's never been that great at technical things. Hacking might have been his only strong suit (and even that's stretching it a bit). But in spite of his severe lack of expertise, he starts to think that he could get used to this. She guides him wordlessly, all through expression and body language and gesture, and simply showing him is so much more: she frames his hands with her own, moves his arms with nudges of her elbows, and persuades his body to perform with an elegance he's sure has never existed before. It's… different. It's incredibly different. It reminds him of the metronome and of her threadbare voice, wonderful and soft, of the both of them humming for just an instant, together, nervous and fighting the tremors inside—
And he can't help but wonder if she feels all of this. Does it happen to her, too? The tingling along the spine with each little touch, the elation swelling between the lungs, the slight hitches in breath? Is this even normal?
Wheatley briefly considers the possibility of abnormalities as he lets her coax his hands into tipping a box of slender pasta over the edge of a pot of hot water. It's not that farfetched. He's not even sure who this body might have belonged to, no less its potential host of physical or mental conditions. He doesn't remember the majority of the procedure—most of it is metal and blinding lights and white and the view of a gurney and the high-pitched hum of something mechanical—but it would be just like Her to leave him in a defective body. Just like Her to put him in something like this as form of punishment. Just like Her.
His muscles tense at the thought.
Everything starts to seize up, and he's not sure what's happening. His fists clench, knuckles blanching white, and his breathing shudders into an uneven rhythm. His eyes slump closed and he can feel dread coiling inside of him, kissing the undersides of his ribs, and all he can think of is what if he really isn't normal, what if it's all some sort of defect, something She did, something to torture him with—
And then he feels Chell's fingers tentatively brush the side of his face; soft, inquiring, gentle. He feels her ease her palm into cupping his jaw, thumb sketching a path along the coarse hairs, asking, and he finds himself flinching at the touch. The thoughts of GLaDOS are hastily ripped away and he's thrust back into reality, the steam from the pot fogging his glasses. He looks down to see Chell's eyes grow wide with alarm, and he can tell that she's taken aback.
"I—I'm sorry, you startled me there," he says, curling his fingers comfortingly around her wrist. "I… wasn't really expecting that. Didn't mean to frighten you, if I did. Sorry. My fault. Just caught in thought."
Chell bites at her lower lip, and she stretches up to touch his face again. The pads of her fingers brush through the thick stubble along his cheeks and jaws, slow and deliberate, as if she's committing the texture to memory. It's strange, but not unpleasant.
Wheatley offers a faint smile. "It is getting a bit long, isn't it? Kind of scratchy. Feels weird. You're nice and smooth, though." He lets go of her wrist to run a thumb quickly along her chin to make his point, the skin pleasantly warm beneath. "Feels much better, I think."
A grin spreads across her lips, the kind that means that she has an idea, but she only stands there, continuing to move her hand along the roughness on his jaws, the heat from the stove giving her skin a flushed sheen.
"Now what are you on about?" he asks. He's glancing back and forth to watch the movements of her fingers, half ready for a trap. "I know that look. It's one of those devilish, plotting looks. Oh, don't think I'm not onto you, lady, because I am. Can't get past Wheatley. I'm ready for anything, ready for—oh, enough with the bloody glasses already! You're making this very difficult, you know. How am I supposed to learn any of this if I can't see properly?"
But Chell isn't listening. It's fuzzy, but he can see her peering into the pasta pot, steam curling the stray locks of her hair, his glasses proudly folded onto the collar of her white shirt. After a moment or two, she seems satisfied that everything is progressing according to plan, and she turns her attention back to him. Looking up, she arches her eyebrows with a rather satisfied expression that seems to say, Well, what are you going to do about it?
Wheatley threads his fingers through his hair and releases a sigh. "All right, all right. Can I have them back? Please? I won't drop anything. Promise. Promise I definitely won't drop anything. And I was doing great. I was, wasn't I? At least I thought I was. So if I could just… please get those back, that'd be amazing. But at your leisure, of course, since you seem pretty intent on constantly snatching them. Well, I suppose it's not really all that constant since you've only done it twice, but still. My point remains."
He feels her take his hand. It's hesitant at first, hovering along the side, barely touching, but then she grips around half of his palm (she's so tiny) and hooks around his last two fingers, pulling his arm toward her. He can feel the dampness on her skin as she curls his fingers into a fist, and then he can feel the heat of her body and the gentle cadence of the thrum in her chest when she presses it flush against her heart.
Moments of silence pass, and Wheatley swallows thickly as he stares down at her through the blur, unsure of what he should do. That's usually her sign for appreciation or gratitude, but she's never done anything like it with his hand before. He feels the drumming inside of him begin to escalate, and it makes his breath grow short, sucking shallow inhales of steam into his lungs. He wishes he knew what this was; it's driving him mad, euphoria trickling down his nerves and pooling behind his breastbone, swelling, swelling, and he's lost and he doesn't know what to do and he wishes more than ever that she could talk. If anyone would know what this feeling is, even if it's a defect or an abnormality or something else that's just not right, it would be her. She'd have to. She's the cleverest person he knows.
Finally, manages to dredge up a response from the dregs of his throat. "Not to… not to ruin this or anything," he says, his voice a touch hoarse, "whatever it is—because it's quite lovely, let me assure you—but I'm… I'm honestly not sure what you're trying to get across here. Maybe if I could have a hint, or if you could write it down, or, or something, anything…"
But then the moment shatters, and Chell is drawn back to the stove to tend to the pasta, his hand forgotten and limp at his side. He stands there, speechless, his spine victim to crawling shivers, and he can't help but watch her as she nods affirmatively to herself, biting again at her lower lip. What is wrong with him? Why is this body reacting this way? He doesn't even know what the bloody hell he's reacting to!
He's wrenched out of his thoughts by a sudden tug on his shirt. Chell is standing close, gesturing to the pot of pasta, her hands half-curled and moving as though she's going to pick it up.
"Oh. Oh, sorry. I did it again, didn't I? Blanked out. That can't be good. I must be getting tired or something." Wheatley shakes his head and rubs his eyes before grabbing a pair of oven mitts. With a light grunt, he picks up the pot by its handles. "All right, just say where."
Chell places her hand about the bend of his arm and leads him toward the sink where a metal colander sits over the drain. She guides him forward, her finger pointing as she nudges him with a gentle shove of her hip. Wheatley takes the hint and rests his knees against the lower cabinets, channeling his strength into hauling the pot over the lip of the sink.
"Watch it, watch it, don't want to burn you, hands out of the way—okay, okay, there, good." He grits his teeth and pours the pasta into the colander, a torrent of steam bursting forth and unfurling upward to engulf him. Taking a breath, he glances to her, the pot still gripped in his hands, and he manages a weak grin. "Not going to lie, I was a bit worried there for a second. Almost thought you weren't going to move."
He thinks he can see her smile. The steam is still curling around his ears and through his hair and his sight is still blurry, but he thinks she is, and then she's suddenly reaching up toward his face, holding something, and then everything is a world of crystal as she slides his glasses back onto his nose, taking care to angle the ends so they don't poke his ears. Her eyes are cool and calm, slate blue, and she gazes up at him with what he thinks is fondness.
"Thank you," he says, but it's low and quiet; a purr in his chest. He can't make it any louder.
Chell moves her lips, her tongue twisting in her mouth, and her brow furrows with what looks like concentration. When nothing happens, she makes a face in displeasure, but it fades when she refocuses on him and instead starts to worry at her lower lip. And then, after a moment of prickling silence, he hears the wispy thrum of her voice.
"… Mmmm." It's just as soft as before, just as shaky and coy, but it's no less wonderful or amazing; still able to lance into his heart and send adrenaline pushing through every chamber, and he feels his grip on the pot handles begin to slacken.
"Oh, that's brilliant," Wheatley breathes, unable to resist the delight that's clambering through him. It shuffles up his vertebrae and down his ribs and he can feel the tingling skip across his toes. He finds himself grinning, inexplicably content. Just the sound of her is enough to make him feel like he's on top of the world! "Well done, mate. You're a bloody natural. And I'll bet you're a great singer, huh? Well, not right this moment obviously, but you will be, I know it. You've got that look about you. Oh, it'll be great, and just imagine—"
And then his grip falters and he yelps because the pot is tumbling to the floor with a resounding crash and damn he is just not with it today.
Wheatley scrambles to scoop it into his arms again, and just as he's leaning up, he comes face to face with Chell. He can see the white of her teeth in her smile; she's not even bothering to hide her amusement.
"Um—sorry about that, really, got a bit carried away," he manages, straightening his back. He tries to ignore the warmth rising in his face, but it doesn't work. "I was just, you know, happy, and I know I promised I wouldn't drop anything, but it wasn't all that important, was it? Nothing was in it. Already got the noodles out. They're safe in the, uh… the metal thing there. The colander. That is what it's called, right? But they're safe and I didn't drop them. Just this. So everything's all right."
Chell's shoulders shake in a silent laugh. Shaking her head, she tugs on the hem of his shirt, signaling for him to follow her. He feels a bit of relief when she doesn't make him leave the kitchen. Instead, she gestures for him to set down the pot, and when he complies, she tugs off the oven mitts and places them by the open book of recipes.
"We're going to finish?" he asks, glancing hopefully to the rest of the ingredients spread across the countertop.
She nods, but motions as though she's going to drop something. After the dramatic posturing of her allowing an invisible container crash to the floor, she shakes a chiding finger at him, an eyebrow arched.
Wheatley grins bashfully. "Right. Finish, but less dropping. Got it. Noted. Will do."
Preparing the rest of the meal goes smoothly, to his surprise. Chell makes sure he no longer has access to large pots, and she leads his hands in stirring in the cream, milk, spices, and the amalgam of vegetables she had chosen earlier. Mixing the newly made cream sauce with the meat and pasta all together in a large bowl is his favorite part, though. The colors are so bright and vivid, and all of it smells absolutely divine.
"So, it's called linguine?" Wheatley is currently sparring with his fork. The noodles keep sliding off, along with the rest of everything else, and it's starting to become really irritating.
Chell nods, twirling the pasta around before pulling it up on her own fork and popping it into her mouth.
Wheatley peers at her through his glasses, fascinated. "How do you do that? This is ridiculous. I do not like these utensils at all. Hands seem so much easier. It's messier, but at least you can eat the bloody stuff."
Letting out a quiet sigh, she takes his hand in hers and shows him how to twist the noodles around the thin tines of the fork. She then scoops into the vegetables, and holds it up with a nonchalant shrug, as if to say, There, easy.
"Oh. Well, thanks." He brings it carefully to his mouth, his other hand cupped beneath, and begins to eat. It has an incredibly pleasant taste, he decides, slurping up a noodle. The shredded cheese on top really hits the spot. He can't believe he actually helped make this! Who would've thought?
Glancing to Chell, he twirls the pasta around his fork again. He wants to thank her somehow, but there's only so many times one can say thank you without sounding like a broken record. He devours another mouthful, chewing on a piece of chicken, and wonders what he can do. He's not versed in every human ritual just yet, so perhaps there's one that's specific to expressing gratitude? He can't ask her that, though. That wouldn't be much of a surprise, would it?
And then a thought strikes him. Thomas Key is a knowledgeable old bloke. He might know!
He smiles complacently into his fork, and when Chell gives him a baffled look, he can only laugh.
Cleanup is quick and efficient, and the leftover pasta is stored in a small container on the center shelf in the fridge. After all the plates and silverware have been put away into their respective cabinets, Wheatley meanders out of the kitchen. Feeling oddly satisfied and eager for tomorrow's events, he makes his way toward the shower.
If he's honest, he's still not used to the idea of bathing. Water used to be a Very Bad Thing. When you're made entirely out of metal and wires and circuitry and countless other electronic components, you eventually learn to avoid things that make you malfunction or pose any kind of threat to your mechanical wellbeing. While bottomless pits are also very high on his list of Things One Must Avoid As a Personality Core, water is definitely the first. Shorting out is not an enjoyable experience, to say the least.
Upon sharing living quarters with Chell, learning that humans had to dunk themselves under torrents of water on a daily basis had come as a bit of a shock. After spending so long trying to stay away from bodies of water, he had been hesitant to plunge into it willy nilly. The initial encounter with the bath tub had been… interesting, but with some additional coaxing from Chell, he had managed to get himself squeaky clean without too much of a mess.
He's still somewhat adverse to the prospect, but he understands why it must be done. Smelly humans, indeed. Especially under the arms. Ugh. He won't be smelly if he can help it.
Wheatley hums contentedly as he lathers soap into his hair, increasing the pressure along his scalp. The water from the shower nozzle patters down his back and along his legs, curving a path across the white porcelain toward the drain. Although he doesn't always like getting into the shower, he has to admit, the feeling can be rather nice. The temperature of the water can be changed, too, and he loves that especially. Hot showers are amazing after a cold day. Human inventions can be quite marvelous.
After he's satisfied that all the soap has washed away, he does another quick scrub with the washrag, leans close to the nozzle to rinse anything else, and then shuts off the water. He shoves the lavender curtain aside and gropes along the wall for the towel rack. When he recognizes the particular touch of fuzzy fabric on his fingers, he promptly grabs it and drapes it over his shoulders as he steps out of the shower.
"Ahh," he murmurs, blissful and at ease. "Nothing better. Nothing at all. Well, except for dinner. Maybe." After ruffling his hair with the burgundy-colored towel, he begins to methodically dry off the rest of his body.
The foggy mirror in front of the sink makes him take pause. Wheatley rubs away some of the moisture with a corner of his towel and peers at his reflection. It's blurry without his glasses, but he can still discern what he looks like. The brown mop of hair on his head is much darker from the water, and even a bit more unruly. His face is slightly gaunt, his shoulders and collar bone more pronounced. The muscles in his arms aren't prominent like the ends of his elbows, but they're still there, while his chest is a flat plane, little lines shaping along his ribcage. His hipbones jut out a bit, too, and a trail of coarse hair runs from his lower belly downward.
Wheatley settles the towel on one shoulder and drags a palm thoughtfully along his jaws. "Wish there was a way to get rid of this. Or at least most of it. Starting to itch." He then inwardly shudders at his subconscious choice of the word. Note: never use it.
A soft knock comes from the other side of the door, and Wheatley is broken from his thoughts.
"Almost done," he calls. "I'll be out in a minute."
Another knock, more insistent.
"What? I said I'm almost done. Just have to get dressed. It'll only be a minute."
Another knock, even more insistent.
"Bloody hell, I don't even—hang on, hang on, let me at least get some pants or trousers or something before you barge in. It'll take two seconds, two seconds." He reaches for the set of pajamas on the sink counter and just manages to wriggle into the bottoms before the door opens.
Chell peeks in warily, her eyes darting about. When she catches his eye and realizes that he's semi-decent, she nudges the door open and moves inside.
Wheatley gives her a curious look, toweling off his hair a second time. "So what's this about? You're the one that was adamant about the privacy thing. And don't deny it, because you were, I remember it. How am I supposed to keep to that with you coming in on me when I've only got half my clothes on?"
But Chell seems to be ignoring him, because she's got his arm and she's pulling him toward the toilet. Closing the lid, she places her hands on his shoulders (it's kind of funny how she stands on her toes like that) and forces him to sit down. She looks him over, and then after hanging his towel comfortably around his neck, she nods to herself and kneels in front of the sink cabinet.
He's not really sure where she's going with this.
"So, what exactly's going on? You haven't even gestured anything. Unless you did actually gesture something and I missed it, and in that case I'm sorry and you should probably gesture it again, but I really don't think you did. Did you?"
Chell emerges from the cabinet with a metal cylindrical bottle and some sort of device with a thin handle topped with a flat, horizontal end. She stands in front of him with the two objects in tow, and he squints at them to get a clearer view.
"Oh, that is, that is—that is a blade. Several tiny blades, actually, but still a blade." Wheatley swallows uneasily and moves his back flush with porcelain. "Now, I'm going to be honest, going to be honest, blades didn't use to bother me much before, being a metal sphere and all. Not much harm to be done there. But now? Like this, all fleshy and with real skin? I'm… I'm not fond of them. At all. I'm actually very susceptible and very much opposed to them. I don't think I have to remind you what happened when I dropped that one near my foot in the kitchen. Gruesome. Blood everywhere. Well, not everywhere, but it was on the floor and on me there was a lot of pain, and that was just not a pleasant experience for anyone. Mostly me. So, seriously, if you could just, just… not have that anywhere near me, that'd be splendid. And appreciated. Greatly."
Chell heaves a sigh. Setting the bottle in his lap, she reaches out with her free hand and drags her fingers along the stubble on his face. Pulling it back, she then makes a smooth up-and-down motion with said blade.
Wheatley shakes his head. "I haven't the slightest idea what that means, and I don't think I want to. No, not with that thing involved. I'll be much happier without it."
The next thing he knows, his eyes are being closed with the help of Chell's fingers.
"What the bloody hell are you doing, I—"
And then one of them presses to his lips, silencing him. He looks up at her through one eye, panicked, and he sees the determination on her face, how her brow knits together and the thin line her mouth makes, and even though he has that flighty oh-god-run sensation in his chest, seeing her look so firm and demanding smoothes out his nerves.
"A-all right, you win, I'll close my eyes." And he does so, shutting them tightly. He doesn't want to see this.
Chell draws away, and he hears the gurgling sound of the running tap. After a moment, it shuts off, silence except for her quick footsteps, and then he feels wet hands rubbing along his neck and jaws. It's a peculiar sensation, he thinks, but not unpleasant. The weight in his lap is soon lifted, followed shortly by a punctuated pop, and then a strange static-like noise fills his ears. Her hands return to his face, gentle and pressing, but this time with a cool substance that she lathers meticulously across his skin. It seems almost like soap, but lighter somehow, or perhaps thicker, and with a sharper smell.
Wheatley hears the sound of the tap again, and then he can feel the tug of her drying herself on the towel hanging from his neck. One hand settles on the top of his head, her fingers threading into his damp hair, and he feels a slight pressure suddenly dragging down his cheek. He can feel the hair resisting as it continues its trek down the slope of his jaw and along his throat, and then the pressure is gone.
Chell guides his hand to the line she had just made. His eyes open wide when the pad of his finger comes into contact with smooth skin, smooth skin where there had been thick stubble moments before!
"Right, okay, I take back what I said," he manages, mouth gaping in awe. "As long as it doesn't hurt, I'm all for this. Blade away."
She quivers with a laugh, and reaches forward to drag it down in another path along his face. Bit by bit, the whitish cream is wiped away by her deft movements, and his jaws are left feeling hairless and smooth. When she's finished, she takes the end of the towel and dabs it along his face, mopping up any of the leftover foam.
Wheatley presses his fingers along his cheeks after she pulls away, completely enthralled with the sensation. "This is incredible," he murmurs. "Why didn't you tell me about this before? Would have done it bloody ages ago. No worrying about all that scratchy stuff or anything, would've just had it all off, no trouble." Eagerly, he gets up from his seat and moves around Chell to get a look into the mirror. When he sees his reflection, he lets out a deep chuckle of approval. "Oh ho, check me out—looking pretty sharp! What do you think, huh? Do you like it? I know I do. This is amazing." He turns his face from side to side, admiring Chell's handiwork. "Oh, you did a wonderful job, mate. Seriously, absolutely grand. Don't know how I'm going to thank you for this."
She casually leans into the mirror beside him. Her reflection gazes back and smiles, wide and proud, a lock of her dark hair falling across her eyes. Wheatley glances down at her and reaches out in attempt brush it aside, but he meets the cool blue of her eyes and he finds himself lost for words, frozen, his hand stopping short by her cheek. The familiar thumping behind his breastbone quickens its pace, and he finds his lungs drawing shallow inhales again. His fingers touch the soft surface of her skin, the ends spreading across to cup her jaw, and he doesn't know what he's doing, what the hell is this, and then he feels those trembles grip the base of his spine and a shudder wracks through him, shattering everything.
Wheatley swallows awkwardly and tucks the lock behind her ear before quickly pulling away. The more distance the better.
"Sorry," he mutters, offering a timid laugh as he hangs the towel in its proper place on the rack. "I… don't really know what came over me there. I must be a bit more tired than I thought. Should probably get to bed, I think. Sounds like a good idea. You ought to as well, you know. Long day tomorrow and all. Rest is important. Can't be staying up all hours, right?"
After grabbing his pajama top and bidding Chell a hasty goodnight, Wheatley makes for the solitude and safety of his bedroom. He shuts the door behind him with a hurried click, and as he sinks back against the surface of the old wood in the cool darkness, his damp palms splayed across the surface, he releases a deep, weary sigh.
This is just going to get worse, isn't it?